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Sunday, February 5, 2017

Poem: In Season

In the 21-century, most of us live in a world where we are
privileged in one way or another. A couple weekends ago, I went on a ski trip
with my dad and marveled at how much fruit there was for breakfast in the
middle of the winter. I was also in the middle of reading Inkdeath, which takes place in the Inkworld during winter.
So the book prompted me to compare my circumstances with those of the
characters. The differences between our century and those of the middle ages is
astounding.

Of course, I read medieval fiction and fantasy stories all
the time, so you would think I would have thought of these things already. But
there’s just so much to take in. I wondered, how much of our present technology
is really necessary? And what is privilege really?

This poem is just an exploration of technology and privilege
and how it differs from country to country.

In Season

Apples are always in season

in this, the first world,

where we know everything.

Crank up the thermostat,

and you can feel the heat soaking
into your skin

like the summer sun, harnessed with
a metal bit;

or turn up the AC, and relish the
nip of winter,

like an albino housecat ready to
sprint

at the crack of the door.

Raspberries are only always in
season

if you’re willing to ship them
across the globe,

like little red slaves to sate our
appetite for fruit

in a world where we think we know
everything.

But some slip on a sweater,

and northerners laugh at your
shivers

while they stride about the snow in
shorts;

and Europe—sweet Europe—laughs at
the thought of AC,

for summer, like a fickle butterfly
flirting with one flower then the next,